Under them was no stain visible, no mark of poverty, no line of pain;
he lay like a king in state with the cloth of gold across his body,
and a crown of gold upon his head; but his soul, his brave, pure,
noble soul, ah! that was looking down from the serene and lofty
heights of everlasting life.
* * * * *
Yes, he lived, Ralph lived and became well and strong. He took his
name and his estates and chose his mother for his guardian; and life
for him was very, very beautiful.
The summer passed and the singing birds grew silent in the woods and
fields. The grain stood golden, and the ripe fruit dropped from vine
and tree. October came, with her frosty nights and smoky days. She
dashed the hill-sides with her red and yellow, and then she held her
veil of mist for the sun's rays to shine through, lest the gorgeous
coloring should daze the eyes of men.
On one of these most beautiful autumnal days, Ralph and his mother
went driving through the country roads, gathering golden-rod and
purple aster and the fleecy immortelle. When they returned they passed
through the cemetery gates and drove to one spot where art and nature
had combined to make pleasant to the living eye the resting-places
of the dead, and they laid their offering of fresh wild-flowers upon
the grave of one who had nobly lived and had not ignobly died. Above
the mound, a block of rugged granite rose, bearing on its face the
name and age and day of death of William Buckley, and also this
inscription:--
"Having finished his work, by the will of God he fell asleep.
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